


One Way to Correct a Child

by Osprayhurricane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 05:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17543300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osprayhurricane/pseuds/Osprayhurricane





	One Way to Correct a Child

 

 

John growls. Just when he thinks he's gotten a break from that interminable, childish little detective, John once again learns he can't trust the man to keep his promises. 

 

It was to be no more running off into danger. No more running out into cars. No more putting loaded guns to the side of his curly head. 

 

All of those have been broken tonight. But it's another cardinal rule of John's that Sherlock seems to have broken which have the man's deeply etched lines on his face furrow further than Sherlock's ever seen them. 

 

At home John grabs Sherlock's nape and swings him around. 

 

"What the hell," Sherlock's voice is high with astonishment as he's crowded against the wall, John's bigger body pinning him to it.

 

"You know full well what you did, you little tart." John's voice is dark and deep and dangerous. "You bending over like a harlot for the entire police department to have a show, then, batting you eye-lashes to get Greg to let you see the other case file." 

 

Sherlock's eyes go wide, but John knows the coyness behind those pretty pale blue eyes.

 

John's hands come to rest on his shoulders, then slide down over his chest, and the voice, now husky and low, gets closer to his ear, making him shiver.  
   
"Still not funny, John," he states crudely, opening his eyes and working his jaw. The laptop sitting open on the table in front of him has remained untouched for the past hour because of John's obsession with finding ways to annoy Sherlock.   
   
Today, the obsession has risen to a new level - literally. John managed to get his hands on a canister of helium and has been following Sherlock around for hours with little hush, just sucking in helium and saying stupid things, starting with this morning when he woke Sherlock early by letting out a spirited screaming noise right in his ear, causing him to tumble out of the bed and onto the floor.  
   
"Aw, come on," John's voice fades lower as his lungs release the gas. "Can't take a little joke, Sherlock?"  
   
"Not. Currently," Sherlock grits out. 

   
"Not even if I make it fun for you?" John breathes out against Sherlock's skin.  
   
The detective gasps sharply at the hand teasing the inside of his hip. Can't resist the lips pressing to his jaw.  
   
"You make a tempting argument," Sherlock answers carefully, letting his head sway to the left. "Convince me?"  
   
"Hmm," John hums against Sherlock's jaw. His hand finds the stiffness in Sherlock's slacks. "It's too easy to annoy you."  
   
Sherlock rolls his eyes back and swats John away.  
   
"Why've you always got to ruin it?" Sherlock complains.   
   
John laughs, "Ruin what?!"  
   
"You're not an idiot, John."  
   
The veteran remains silent for a long moment, and, briefly, Sherlock worries he's scared the man off. But then John climbs into his lap, hooks his arms around Sherlock's neck, and softly presses his lips to the detective's.  
   
"I could always ruin something else," John murmurs, eyes closed and lips brushing Sherlock's skin. "If you'd like."  
   
Before John can do anything stupid again, Sherlock grabs him forcefully by the waist and yanks him in to shut him up. He feels John's crotch hardening against his belly and swallows the moan that escapes John's throat, pushing his hips up just teasingly. Their tongues meld together, white teeth wedding marks in lips and necks, mouths pausing for only milliseconds at a time to remove shirts and unbutton slacks. And soon, John is bare and Sherlock is haphazardly shoving everything on the table off to the side and replacing it with John and working his way from John's knees, up his thighs, to the moneyshot.   
   
Tauntingly, Sherlock bites red marks in the crook between John's thighs and groin, then sucks John's balls into his mouth, which the doctor absolutely mewls over, until, finally, Sherlock's tongue presses flat against his hole. He just keeps it there like that, studying the way John pushes back against it in mindless ecstasy.   
   
Sherlock weaves their fingers together so he has leverage to pull John closer as he works the hole open with a great enthusiasm he hasn't felt since his first case with John.   
   
The man is pliable and clean-shaven only in the places where he knows Sherlock likes it. He melts at Sherlock's every touch, arches away from the table when Sherlock slips two, then three fingers in. John grips the heavy burgundy curtain, and Sherlock is momentarily concerned that he'll tear it down, but the thought passes quickly because John's babbling nonsense and gyrating his hips against the fingers in his arse and, Sherlock can't entirely tell, but John Hamish Watson appears to be begging for Sherlock to cum inside him.  
   
Initially, Sherlock had planned to take his revenge at this point - to annoy the living hell out of John, get back at him for the helium thing, but the veteran looks so impeccable beneath him, strung out and panting incoherent praise, that Sherlock simply can't help himself. He peels his fingers away, making absolutely sure to run them over the bundle of nerves that makes John twitch and gasp, then teases the blunt tip of his cock against the stretched rim.   
   
Slowly, agonisingly, Sherlock glides in, releasing a breath at the warmth that comes to surround him.  
   
Per John's request, he's not gentle. Sherlock slams into John's ass over and over, burying his nails in John's thighs. When he cums, he hooks his arms beneath Watson's arched back and lets himself lose control, something he can't do without John to hold onto. When he loses control without John there to catch him, he can never find his way back.   
   
But right now, John is here, and he's clinging to Sherlock for dear life, and he's exhaling his love and graces into their embrace.   
   
"Sherlock, I'm--" John's voice is choked off by his groan as he follows Sherlock in orgasm, dousing them both in sticky white.   
   
And as their breathing calms and vision returns to Sherlock's eyes and the sun brushes pale yellow paint onto the dark walls and floor, Sherlock finds himself able to reel himself in.  
   
Though John is childish and silly, he's also a beacon in the dark corners of Sherlock's mind, and he knows one thing's for sure.  
   
Annoying as he can be, as long as he's got John Watson, he'll never get lost in the spiral again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summary:  
In an attempt to write slow Sunday morning sex, this happened. Please enjoy greedy John getting filled in more ways than he expected.  
Work Text:  
The air outside is cool as the soft, rose-gold light of dawn paints it’s way across the sky to caress the dew-drenched pavement of Baker Street. Everything is still and quiet. Everything but the slow creak of springs and low, rumbling groans filtering out of the window of 221B.  
John has his hands wrapped around the wrought iron bars of the headboard—two anchor points to keep him grounded against Sherlock’s thrusts. John’s face is tucked into his biceps, his teeth biting into the swell of muscle, as Sherlock carves slow and deep into his body.  
He’s draped over John’s back, panting against his nape. His voice is deep, velvet and sin against the shell of John’s ear. “Yes, John. Oh… Christ that’s good. Gonna come in you. So deep inside you. Would you like that? Would you like me to paint your insides with my come?”  
John’s breath catches, his fingers flex. “Fuck yeah.”  
He rocks his hips back, meeting the rolling tide of Sherlock’s thrusts, and curses into the bedclothes. He’s overstimulated—caught between the blissful fullness of Sherlock buried so deep inside him, and the agonizing friction of the sheets against his throbbing, wet cock.   
Sherlock pulls back, splaying his hands on John’s shoulders and giving himself the space to grind down. He pushes and pushes and pushes himself to the hilt, until John and can feel the scratch of pubic hair against his arse. Sherlock circles his hips, a filthy, churning motion that has John crying out, demanding, “Harder! C’mon. Fuck me like you mean it.”  
“You don’t think I mean it?” Sherlock pants, dark and ravenous. John shudders to think that Sherlock has taken this as a challenge.  
Sherlock pulls back even further, sliding his hands from John’s shoulders to his waist, his hips, his arse. He squeezes John’s cheeks, pulls them apart, then lets his thumbs slip down their twin slopes.  
John sucks in a breath as he feels Sherlock’s thumbs slide along his raw rim, already stretched thin around his cock. He wouldn’t. Would he?  
He would.  
Sherlock slowly withdraws. Not all the way, just enough to give him space. John’s breathing is rapid and shallow, his thoughts vacillating between excitement and fear. They’ve never played at something like this before. He knows Sherlock would stop if he asked, but he doesn’t want to ask. He wants to see how far this will go.  
Sherlock presses the blunt pads of his thumbs in, sliding them alongside his slick shaft, and tugs. John goes half delirious with the sensation. He groans so low and so loud, he can hardly believe it’s his own voice.   
“You like that?” Sherlock tilts his hips forward and back, just the barest hint of a thrust.  
“Ohhhhhh yeahhhhhhh.”  
Sherlock pushes in a bit more, testing the stretch, and John arches back to meet him. “Oh, John…” Sherlock sounds breathless. And a bit wicked. “Now you’re going to fuck me like you mean it.”   
It takes a bit of maneuvering, but soon John has once again secured his grip on the headboard—giving himself the leverage to impale himself over and over on the hot spear of Sherlock’s cock and those thumbs tucked just inside him.  
This wasn’t how the morning had started. It had started slow and soft and sweet, with Sherlock nuzzling into the hair at John’s nape and John pressing back into the warm crucible of Sherlock’s body. It had been lazy as Sherlock slicked the leaking tip of his cock over John’s hole and plunged two fingers inside—John still been loose and wet from the night before. There had been no rush as Sherlock fingered John’s arsehole. He’d peppered John’s shoulder and neck with feather-light kisses as he rubbed maddening little circles against John’s prostate, until he was nearly sobbing with the pleasure of it.   
But nothing between them can remain slow and sweet. Nothing can remain delicate when the passion between them is stoked.  
And so, John is now on his knees, head hanging between his shoulders, as he fucks back onto Sherlock’s fat prick and the thumbs pressed against either side of his greedy hole. It’s an exquisite fullness, like nothing he’s ever felt before. He’d almost be embarrassed by how much he loves it, if it didn’t make his eyes roll back in his head and his toes curl. He’d never really thought of himself as a size queen, but now he’s seriously reconsidering. He’s wondering how much more he could take. Oh God. Would Sherlock fist him? Would he even want that? He thinks about Sherlock snapping on a black nitrile glove and lubing his hand up until he’s glistening to the wrist…  
John’s balls draw up tight and liquid pleasure burns through his veins. He shouts loud enough that his voice breaks, then he’s coming. Coming so hard a ribbon of semen hits his own chin. His heart is hammering and he’s still panting when Sherlock pulls his thumbs free of his grasping hole and takes him by the hips. He pulls John back onto his cock once, twice, three times, then lets loose a bone-deep groan as he goes rigid. John can feel him pulsing deep inside, making good on his promise.  
It’s a breathless eternity later that Sherlock slips his softened cock from John’s hole. John knows he must be gaping, he can feel the warm trickle of come sliding down his inner thigh. Sherlock sits back on his heels and pries apart the globes of John’s ass, no doubt going in for a closer examination. He blows a cool stream of air against his hole, and John clenches reflexively.  
“That was…” Sherlock is, for once, speechless.  
John slumps down onto the bed. “Yeah it was.”  
“Would you…” Sherlock lies down next to John, curls the tips of his fingers over the crest of John’s hip. “Would you like to do something like that again?”  
John grins down into the mattress. “Oh god, yes.”


End file.
